The Foxhole
by Evergreene
Summary: Athos keeps saying his name as though hoping to call him back from the dead before he has even joined them. So far, it seems to be working.


**A/N: I'd say this is inspired by an event in book The Three Musketeers, but it could also come down to me just having a thing for imprisoning d'Artagnan in cellars. At least this time there is bonus-Athos! :)  
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**The Foxhole  
**

_They will come, d'Artagnan. All we need do is wait._

He jerks awake to find Athos shaking him, hand wrapped tight in the collar of his shirt.

'D'Artagnan? What did I say?'

He closes his eyes. Every part of him hurts and Athos is not helping. Yet the question comes again and so he answers. 'You've barricaded us ... inside our own gaol?'

When Athos nods, he huffs a laugh which bubbles up and spills out into the empty air. 'Only you, Athos,' he murmurs, opening his eyes to the shadowy figure of his friend bending over him, his face pale in the gloom and his billowing shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows.

There is a thumb at the corner of his mouth, wiping away the blood that has come up. 'No one is able to access this room to take us out, d'Artagnan. We are safe here.'

Reality comes back to him, the jagged pieces of a broken mirror, and he sees again the gallows being built on the hill, hears the croaking voice of the town judge condemning them both for a murder that was self-defence. His humour fades. 'We cannot escape, Athos. We shall starve.'

He can see Athos's lips tighten in the unsteady light of the candle stub that Athos had found in his pocket. 'Don't be a fool,' Athos says, his voice short. 'They locked us in their store cellar. We have food, wine. We can last for days if need be.'

Yet bitterness takes him, cold and certain. The blade he took during the fight will mean his end if the wound is not treated and there is no hope of that, not while they are locked in here. He will not last the days of which Athos speaks and he sees no need to point it out.

Athos seems to know what he is thinking, for his hands are firm as they press the blue cape with its rust-red stains more firmly against his wound. 'We must give Aramis and Porthos every chance to find us. I have bought us time by blocking the door and now you must fight. Do you hear me, d'Artagnan? Swear to me you will fight.'

He does not answer, but hopes Athos will take his nod as the promise it is as he slips into unconsciousness once again.

* * *

_D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan!_

Athos keeps saying his name as though hoping to call him back from the dead before he has even joined them. So far, it seems to be working, but he is starting to hate the very sound of it. He tells Athos so.

Athos smiles, which is as close as he ever gets to laughter. 'You have a good name, d'Artagnan. Do not speak ill of it for it must last you a lifetime.'

'So not long then.'*

Athos is silent for a long while and when he finally speaks his voice sounds strained, as though he is fighting to control himself. 'Speak like that again,' he says, 'and I will leave you here to rot. You bear your father's name and you will do him proud for years to come, until the very streets of Paris ring with the name d'Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony. Is that clear?'

He swallows, nods.

'Then we are agreed.'

Beside them, the candle flickers, sputters and goes out.

* * *

_Listen to me. Focus on my voice, d'Artagnan, and stay awake. If you stay awake, you will stay alive._

'Have I ever told you of the time my father lost me up a tree?'

His lips curve blindly. The darkness is disorienting and he does not know how much time has passed, but if Athos is telling him tales of his boyhood years, it must be a while. 'You never tell anyone about your childhood ... or anything else for that matter.'

The chains at Athos' wrists clank. 'Clearly your mind is addled for my powers of conversation are beyond measure. I have put even Aramis to shame.'

He laughs at that, and does his best not to choke as his chest seizes. Athos' brevity is famed amongst the musketeers, if not the world, and they both know it. 'Tell me your story then,' he rasps. 'It will pass the time unt-'

Athos cuts him off. 'We have all the time in the world and that is well, for I was up that tree for many an hour.' He seems to lean back against the wall of the cellar, for d'Artagnan feels his shoulder press against his own, grounding him in the darkness. 'The day began as this ...'

* * *

_Drink, d'Artagnan. You must keep up your strength._

'Water?' He knows the answer before he asks the question, but he cannot help but ask it anyway, hoping vaguely that something will have changed.

Athos's voice is tight. 'We only have wine and little enough of that now left. I have told you this.'

He lets out a small sound. Athos does not answer him but there is the clink of a bottle and a hand is under his chin, tilting his head back, and liquid is flowing down his throat, not the cool quench that he desires, but thick and red and sluggish.

He gags and tries to spit it out, but his jaw is held more firmly as Athos forces him to swallow.

'It will help with the pain,' he hears dimly.

Closing his eyes, he waits desperately for it to work and wonders why Athos, who is drunk as often as he is sober, does not seek refuge in the wine himself.

* * *

_You must not sleep, d'Artagnan. If you sleep, you will die. I told you to fight, damn you!_

There is a sharp crack and his cheek is stinging. He jerks awake, realises that Athos has slapped him and blinks, confused by the blazing anger that radiates from this man he knows like a brother.

His thoughts are misty and the darkness is absolute but he tries to think. Has he done something wrong? Just in case, he tries to apologise through dry, cracked lips, but the words will not come and he ends up looking in Athos' direction with pleading eyes, hoping he will somehow know what is meant.

Athos does not say anything, but slowly the feeling of anger in the room fades to something else - exhaustion, hopelessness, an apology of Athos's own - he does not know what. There is another touch to his face, softer this time and on his forehead, and he realises that Athos is smoothing back his hair.

That, more than anything else, tells him that Athos does not think they will survive this.

* * *

_Stay with me, d'Artagnan. Do not let go._

The words come to him slowly, through a darkness that is soft and sweet and pulls on him like a young boy on his father's hand. All he wants is to fall into its caress and he would do so were it not for the voice that is always there, forbidding him to let go and expecting to be obeyed.

He hates that voice like nothing else. It makes him hurt, brings back the blood and pain and the sword-thrust burning, the chains that weigh so heavy, the knowledge that he will face the gallows if his own body does not put him to death first.

He wants the voice gone, wants it to leave him alone and let him rest. But it belongs to Athos, who never says anything unless it is worth saying, who always means him well. So he listens and lets the voice tether him to life.

For a while, at least.

* * *

_I am here._

There is an arm propped about his shoulders and the heavy weight of Athos' head rests against his own. He knows that his friend is fading, that his steel-like strength can only go on so long without nourishment, but he finds it hard to imagine that Athos, who has always seemed the sturdiest of his three friends, will fade from this world like other mortals.

He licks his lips, feeling them paper-thin beneath his swollen tongue. 'S'not like the stories.'

Athos shifts beside him. A couple of days ago, the movement would have sent splinters of pain spidering through him but now his body is only a numb extension of his thoughts and so it does not really matter.

He tries again. 'In all the tales 'bout the Musketeers ... s'always ... blaze of glory. Not like this.'

Athos heaves a heavy sigh. 'There is no shame in death, d'Artagnan. Not for you.'

The words strike something in him and he struggles to look up at Athos. The movement starts him coughing and he gasps for breath, unable to draw enough air into his lungs and soon he is panicking, choking, dying...

Athos's fingers start to card slowly through his hair. They are soothing and warm and gradually he subsides, lets himself sink back into Athos' hold, feels himself go boneless as words he knows better than anything begin to curl through the darkness, loyal and deep and rumbling true as they bounce off the walls that surround them both.

'All for one and one for all ...'

He finishes it without thinking, the words rolling onwards, taking shape as though written in the air.

'... united we stand, divided we fall.'

* * *

_D'Artagnan, answer me. Are you there? Athos!_

There is a sound from outside, a shout that is achingly familiar and Athos is moving, shifting him to the ground and staggering over to the door, his chains rattling as he starts to pull at the heavy shelves that lie against it.

D'Artagnan flinches as something hits the planks from the other side and he realises that Athos is shouting, hoarse and pained but desperate and demanding as he finally wrenches aside the shelves that have been their safeguard and daylight floods into the cellar.

A stabbing pain hits his eyes and a rush of fresh air sweeps over him, drawing his attention to the dim silhouettes of two men standing in the open doorway, both wearing hats and boots and bearing swords, a far cry from the rough town guardsmen who imprisoned them.

Blinded, he screws up his eyes and tries to turn away. Yet Aramis is suddenly at his side and Porthos is looming large next to him with a strong arm supporting Athos, a solid shield from the dagger-like brightness of the outside world. They stand there, the three musketeers, and all d'Artagnan can do is stare.

Aramis crouches beside him and his cool hands begin to probe at the bloodied cape covering his wound, which has begun to pound slow and fierce. Everything is loud and bright and it _hurts _but then he hears Athos speak and he stills, conditioned after days in the dark to listen and learn and live.

'Will he make it?'

Aramis pauses and d'Artagnan's breath halts inside him. Finally, Aramis nods and announces something about 'the devil's own luck' as he pulls out a water flask and holds it up to d'Artagnan's lips, allowing him to take a couple of sweet sips before pulling it away. D'Artagnan tries to follow but then he realises that Athos is on his knees beside him, one pale hand clutching his outstretched thigh, just as a man lost overboard will cling to a rope thrown his way.

Abruptly glad that Aramis and Porthos have both turned away to converse in harried whispers, d'Artagnan gathers his strength and reaches up. His fingers touch Athos' and he smiles, trying to convey his gratitude and thanks and knowing it will never be enough.

Athos does not say anything, but his shoulders tremble and his fingers curl briefly around d'Artagnan's before letting go and d'Artagnan knows that he understands.

He is not out of the woods, not yet. Yet their trial is over, their friends have found them and the gallows no longer beckons from up on the hill.

They are safe.

**END**

**Thank you for reading and I'd love to hear your thoughts!**


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